Outside, where the world is

Time alarm clock went off: 6:00 sharp: minutes took to drag self out of warm, soft bed: 32; minutes spent yelling at self for taking so much time doing nothing: none (excellent).
It’s the middle of sixth period and abruptly it occurs to me that I’ve sat inside for almost six of the seven hours I’ve spent at school. I grip the edge of my desk. The teacher resides on a stool in the front of the room, talking. His words fly over my head and out through the glass of the closed window in the back of the room. I envy them and their freedom. I’m craving sun and fresh air. I want to be outside. Outside, engaged in the world. Outside, with grass and soil and worms beneath my feet, and sky, endless sky above. Oh, for a breeze to brush my cheek. To hear a bird whisper and sing. To look up and make pictures with clouds. To breathe and smell atmosphere.
I look around. We’re all in desks. Lined up in rows, orderly. I feel like I’m missing the world. Like it’s all happening out there, without me. Sometimes I wish school took place outside, with blankets and ice cold lemonade and maybe a guitar or two. Conversations would be sweeter, more creative, engaging. The energy of a class changes when it takes place outside. Suddenly it’s not just students and curriculum and teacher. It’s people and thinking and ideas.
I raise my hand and ask my teacher if he ever takes classes outside. He tells me, yes, he has in the past, if they display enough maturity and responsibility. I nod and look down at my desk, this wooden thing that’s keeping me strapped and trapped inside. I want to simply jump up and run out the door, throw my arms out, spin till I’m dizzy. Instead, I sit, mature and responsible, hoping the others will take the hint, so that perhaps, just perhaps one day we can enjoy class outside.